If This Gets Out(6)
I rest my head against the glass as the chorus starts. It’s one of our earlier songs, before I’d fully shaken off my punk style of singing, the one Geoff kindly described as whiny and uncommercial, so my tone is shaky and the auto-tune is unmissable. I’d do it differently if I got a do-over, but when you’re famous, everything you do follows you forever.
I check the mirror and yep, the driver is still watching me. It’s fucking creepy.
I bob my head along to the beat, pretending I’m having a good time. Like, “Guilty,” yes, love it.
“My daughter is obsessed with you, Zach,” he says, making eye contact through the mirror. “All of you, but especially you. She says she’s a ‘stan.’”
I wince and force a smile. “Oh wow, thanks, that’s really nice of you to say.”
He chuckles. “You’re welcome. You know, I’m more of a rock guy, but some of your songs are pretty catchy. Just don’t tell anyone I said that, okay?”
I’m pretty much used to this now. Basically, no guy will compliment Saturday without an asterisk of some sort. You kind of suck, but …
“I won’t.” I pause, then decide to go for it. “I’m more of a rock guy, too.” It’s the first honest thing I’ve said to him.
I pick at my leather bracelet, which my stylist makes me wear.
For the record, I do love our songs. It’s just they aren’t my favorite thing to listen to during my downtime, nor is it what I’d choose to sing if I had control over that sort of thing.
Which I don’t. So it doesn’t matter.
Approximately half our discography later, in which I find out just how much one boy can cringe, I’m finally home. I slide open the door, step out into the midmorning sunshine, and crack my back as a cover to look down the street. There’s nobody around, though, and more importantly no paparazzi, at least that I can see. One of the weirdest things about being famous is seeing photos of yourself in magazines when you don’t even remember paparazzi being there. It doesn’t help that they’re getting sneakier, with cameras that can take pictures from miles away. I’m in magazines all the time now, so I always feel like someone, somewhere, is staring at me. For all I know, they are.
I check my reflection and start preening, because Chorus Management would lose their shit if a photo of me gets out where I look like trash. My hair is messier than it should be, with a few strands sticking out. Under Geoff’s direction, I’ve grown it long instead of my usual zero-maintenance short spikes, and I’m still not used to it. It keeps getting in my eyes or tickling my neck. It’s a major pain in the ass, and I’m not sure it even looks good enough to warrant the effort.
The driver retrieves my suitcase, catching me in the act.
“Thanks,” I say, as I tip him a fifty-dollar bill.
“No worries.” He keeps watching me. “Would you mind if I got a photo? My daughter would kill me if I didn’t.”
I make sure my smile is extra cheery. “Go ahead!”
He takes out his phone, and leans in close to take a few selfies with me. Part of me wants to wrap it up so I can just get out of here and see Mom, but I stop myself. Don’t be one of those celebrities, a voice lectures me in the back of my head. It’s just a small favor. It’s fine.
Once he’s taken enough photos to fill an album, I go inside, and enter the elevator using my key card, and then go up to the top level. I knock on the door, and a few seconds later, it opens.
Mom rushes out and grabs me in a tight hug. I think she’s dressed up for this, since she’s in a striped button-down tucked into jeans. When we break apart, there are tears in her eyes. She wipes them like it’s something to be ashamed of and not the sweetest thing ever. Then she reaches out and grabs me again, hugging me hard enough it kinda hurts. She’s wearing perfume, so yep, she definitely dressed up just for this. My dad might be an absent piece of shit, but I lucked out with her.
“I’ve missed you so much,” she says.
“Why?”
She laughs and shakes her head, then takes a moment to look me up and down. “When did this happen?”
I tuck a hand into my front pocket. “Erin makes us work out twice a day now.”
Mom frowns. I know she has strong opinions on the, in her words, “batshit” hoops Erin and the rest of Chorus Management make us jump through, and the constant workouts are a part of that. But I’m not being overworked. It’s fine. When I used to go to regular school, I was a forward on the soccer team, and that was a huge commitment, but I loved it anyway. When I’m a part of a team, or working toward a goal, following orders doesn’t feel anything like work. Being in Saturday is similar. Plus, I’m eighteen now, so I get it. There’s only so much mileage you can get out of cute, and I really need to transition to hot if I want to have a career. Which I do. Maybe not as badly as, like, Ruben, but I still do.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing, you just look so much like your dad.”
I wonder how that must be for her. I mean, I see the resemblance, especially now that I’ve put on some mass. But that means I look like the guy that peaced out on her to start a new family with a coworker ten years younger than him. The same guy who only started regularly calling when Saturday started hitting the news. The guy who told me pursuing music was a horrible idea and he wouldn’t support me if I went down that path, and then expected to reap every single one of the rewards once the band took off.